


and if you kissed me now i know you'd fool me again

by junkeroni (hotdammneron)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas, Friends With Benefits, M/M, if that bothers anyone, last christmas by wham, so it's not sex but it's definitely horny, tyson barrie is skinny fuck blue lives, ~underage drinking~ by american standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 06:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotdammneron/pseuds/junkeroni
Summary: It’s like, the most cliche thing in the world to realize you’re in love a week before Christmas, but Tyson might as well be the bumbling reindeer trainer in a Hallmark special for the way this shit pans out.





	and if you kissed me now i know you'd fool me again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TylerAndAlexAndCeddyOhMy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TylerAndAlexAndCeddyOhMy/gifts).



> happy late holidays!! 
> 
> very big thank u to aisling for giving me ideas, george michael for Last Christmas, mariah carey for All I Want For Christmas is You, and the hockey holidays mods for putting up with me. i love everyone in this bar. 
> 
> my mom had a George Michael poster when she was growing up, around the Faith era, and it was apparently an angle from the back that was mostly ass. I can’t find a photo of anything like it, but if I do, I’ll let everyone know. 
> 
> ETA: i don't want to make any promises here, but once author reveals happen, keep an eye out for some LENGTHY josty fic coming from me. i plan to deliver. and i live to please. love u all
> 
> tylerandalexandceddyohmy, i hope you like it!!

“Your mom would hate that,” JT says, crinkling up his nose at the scarf Tyson’s holding out. “I don’t think she’d like the color.” 

“Colorblind, bitch,” Tyson says, flicking JT’s arm, and JT bats his hand away. 

“Yeah, I can tell,” JT says, and Tyson bumps his whole body into him for good measure. “Mister neon scarf over here, you could’ve just brought your glasses with you, y’know.”

“It’s more fun to demand your approval on all my bad decisions,” Tyson says, because really, there’s no point to shopping together otherwise. Other than, like -

Well. If genuinely enjoying spending time with one’s roommate, teammate, liney, whatever is a crime, Tyson knows fully well that he’s doing time forever. There’s nothing else to it. 

And like, if Tyson’s stomach feels like flipping when JT’s brow furrows like that while he’s looking at some boring clothes, that’s his own deal. So he gets the stamp of approval on this nice pajama set for his mom and some weirdly fancy dish towels, and picks some fully fucking bizarre earrings for Kacey, and he doesn’t fixate any more than usual on the way JT worries his lip between his teeth in line at H&M, and it’s all just normal and wonderful and nothing to bother thinking about.

The thing is, like, Tyson’s not great at good decisions. He’s nineteen, so sue him for being pretty stupid. He went to college to play hockey, not to get more knowledge like everyone seemed to think. So it’s not - it’s not a surprise, that he’s this good at fucking stuff up. 

So he’s made out with JT three times. It’s not a big deal, and it’s extra not a big deal if he thinks about JT when he jacks off, or the one time he seriously considered just asking JT to fuck him at one in the morning in goddamn Edmonton. It’s nothing.

Tyson leans a little into JT’s side while they wait for the elevator down to the parking garage, just blinks up at him through his eyelashes, that always works. JT keeps talking about going to the fucking post office, because he’s really stupid boring sometimes, and Tyson does his best to subtly crowd him into the corner when they finally get into the elevator. Fuck the post office, seriously. 

“I mean, as long as I get it in the mail tomorrow at the latest, I should be good, right?” JT asks, and Tyson’s done enough with the conversation to take the situation into his own hands and just get his mouth on JT’s neck right there in the elevator.

“I don’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t care less about the post office,” Tyson says, breaking away from the little bruise he’s trying to leave right below JT’s collar. “Can we make out when we get home?” 

And that’s - well. It’s a line, sort of, that Tyson’s wanting to cross. He wants to make out with JT at four pm on the weird couch that Kerf insisted worked with the energy of the room, and he wants to make out with JT in bed, and in the kitchen or maybe the shower, just. A lot of places. It’s not exactly new, but it’s more of a developed concept now.

“You’re insufferable, you know that, right?” JT says, pushing Tyson off from where he’s draped over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what that means, and I never will,” Tyson says all sing-song, because everyone who said being annoying won’t get you what you want is a liar. “Is that a no on making out?” 

JT ignores him, and he refuses to take that as a no, either. 

 

Halfway through the third holiday baking championship episode of the night, JT sighs and drags Tyson up into his lap by the thighs, and yeah, that’s exactly what he’s been after. And it’s -

It’s a revelation, maybe, when JT gets his fingers in Tyson’s hair just the way he likes and pulls him back by the hair, and he realizes that’s exactly it. That it’s exactly what he wants, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and nobody else he’d rather have pressing a thumb into his lower lip. Maybe that’s a revelation, maybe he’s known it from the first time JT bumped into him at practice and gave him that weird little appraising look, maybe he’s known since he got his hands down the front of JT’s pants in Tyson Barrie’s second floor guest bathroom on Halloween.

Whenever it happened, it’s one of the scariest things Tyson’s ever felt. 

So it’s been two months of saying it’s not a big deal, and suddenly it’s the biggest deal ever, and it’s a wonder that Tyson doesn’t get out of JT’s lap and run out of the apartment as soon as he realizes. He bites JT’s thumb about it instead, because that’s a bit more accessible than freaking out and running in the face of being horny.

 

He’s in love with JT Compher. 

It’s not exactly news. 

 

The thing is, Tyson’s watched a lot of Christmas movies. Like, from vintage deep cut claymation shit to every possible made-for-TV festive romantic comedy, Tyson’s seen them and cried at them. He knows what’s up, and he knows the tropes they always use, so, like -

It’s like, the most cliche thing in the world to realize you’re in love a week before Christmas, but Tyson might as well be the bumbling reindeer trainer in a Hallmark special for the way this shit pans out. 

 

So like - it’s a big deal. There’s a line in the proverbial sand somewhere, and that line says “being a big deal”, and they’ve officially crossed it. Or, like, Tyson’s gone and crossed it, because he’s the one who fucked around and got feelings, and JT’s settled comfortably on the “I make out with my roommate sometimes” side of the sand line, and the metaphor sucks but there’s a line and it’s been crossed. 

They don’t talk about it. And there’s not much to talk about, really, if you don’t take the feelings part of it into account, and Tyson refuses to tell anybody about that part, so they don’t talk about it. 

They also, all things considered, don’t do anything, really. They haven’t had sex, even if Tyson really wants to, and they aren’t dating, even if Tyson apparently wants that too. Making out with someone four times isn’t a sign of shit, but Tyson falls in love too easily, or something, because there was Dante, and -

Dante isn’t exactly relevant, anymore. Not in Denver. The Dante situation is beside the point. 

 

They go to the Christmas party, because it’s practically mandatory at this point, and someone will probably be willing to give Tyson booze, because seriously, fuck American liquor laws. He’s got the weird Christmas sweater on, because Barrie parties have a dress code, and he’ll stick to that, even if JT downright refused to buy a matching one, and he plays Last Christmas on full volume in the car. 

“You’re losing aux privileges if you play this again,” JT says, not looking off the road, and it shouldn’t be sexy, but, whatever.

“Make me,” Tyson says, nonsensical, the nebulous threat of road head looming in the space between them above the gearshift. It’s an empty threat, more or less. 

“You’re a brat,” JT reminds him, like he could ever forget, and he’s still just driving responsibly like some kind of - responsible driver. Whatever.

“And you love me anyway, I know,” Tyson says without thinking, because when does he ever think? 

JT just rolls his eyes, and Tyson just so casually tries to run his fingers up the seam of JT’s jeans, and JT’s still not crashing the car or anything, so he sort of just gives up. They pull up to the curb outside Tyson Barrie’s house, painfully punctual. Tyson’s sort of just horny and upset when JT gets out of the car before he has a chance to just climb across the divider thing and like, demand to get fucked, or something. 

But JT gets out of the car, and so does Tyson, and shit’s normal, even if Tyson wants to hold JT’s hand and kiss him even when he’s not just horny. Totally normal, totally fine, totally something Tyson just wants to lay down about for a while.

 

“Mariah is fucking skinny, you fucking moron,” Tyson Barrie yells as soon as Josty walks toward the kitchen. “Fucking Michael Buble can suck my dick, this is a Mariah only household, get the fuck out,”

“I never said anything about Mariah, Tys,” EJ says with Tyson glaring at him from across the fake marble countertop in the middle of the room. The island, whatever they called it in the IKEA catalog JT got delivered that one time. Tyson thinks it was island.

“If you disagree with me, you can leave,” Tyson says, holding his voice steady as he points vaguely in the direction of the front door.

EJ makes his way around the counter, putting up his hands in a sort of - submission? Truce? Something weird and way too EJ-and-Tyson for Josty to think about. Tyson’s drinkless hand shoots out to grab EJ’s arm, holding him in place maybe.

“If you actually leave I’m gonna cry,” he says, staring all big-eyed up at EJ. “And I’m gonna have to walk all the way to your house and make you come back.” 

EJ just rolls his eyes, looking far too fond, and he waves at Josty a little. Tys feels seen, and like, loved, somehow. 

“Hey, Tys, EJ,” JT says, brushing past Tyson with his stupid shoulders, doing this weird little two finger salute-wave, and Tyson wants to bite him. Or, like, wake up next to him every morning and kiss him with morning breath, and also ride him into the sunset. It’s very complex, this whole ‘love’ thing Tyson’s stumbled into. 

“Hey Comph,” Tyson (Barrie) says brightly, leaning into EJ’s side and resting his head on his shoulder. It’s sweet. “Don’t get junior too smashed, mmkay?” 

“Scouts honor,” JT says with his most charmingly boyscout smile, and EJ snorts into his drink. 

 

The thing is, like -

Tyson’s drunk, and he’s in the sad stage of it for all of three minutes. 

And like, when they were back in Penticton, Dante made up a like - a scale, sort of, a chart of the stages of Tyson Jost’s Drunk Night. It was, of course, highly academic, extensively sourced, MLA format or whatever, and absolutely scribbled on the back of Dante’s billet sister’s math homework. So they smoked Dante’s weed and they played mario kart until they started making out, and then it was just, like, super fucking funny and important that they write this shit down. Just sitting there on the weird couch in the basement, high off overpriced weed and the hazy mood of getting your hands out of your best friend’s boxers just in time for him to start making a fucking flowchart.

So Tyson’s always been predictable, is the thing. Dante knew within a few months that Tyson was always flirty, always sort of handsy, and it just got more when he got anything in his system. And like, Tyson’s not thinking about Dante, because Dante’s all the way in Boston and Tyson’s in Denver and Dante’s happy and Tyson’s happy, but -

Tyson’s predictable. That’s the point. And he’s drunk without being sad, which is a sexy little Christmas miracle if he’s ever seen one.

 

By the time Gabe’s calling for a group photo and EJ’s sort of serenading everyone with a tone-deaf rendition of what might be Blue Christmas, Tyson’s just sort of settled into JT’s lap. Stage three in Tyson Jost’s Drunk Night, find someone’s lap and sit in it, check. Tyson just giggles to himself, not into the intersection between JT’s neck and his shoulder like he wants to, right where the fabric of his sweater just grazes the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t press his face into JT’s neck, because he’s facing the wrong direction, just perched on JT’s thighs with an arm wrapped around his waist. He’d rather be, like, straddling JT, obviously, but. Can’t all be winners.

Somewhere on the other side of the room, EJ won’t stop saying “blue, blue, blue Christmas” in this exaggerated deep voice, adding more ‘blue’s every time with the backing music of Tyson Barrie’s wheezing giggles.

“We’re taking a group photo, you guys,” Gabe half-whines, trying to prop his phone up on an already past dying potted poinsettia on the coffee table. “At least try to be presentable?”

JT’s arm unwraps from around Tyson’s waist to take his weird vodka soda out of his hand, and Tyson pouts for three seconds before falling mostly out of JT’s lap. Fucking, gravity, whatever. There’s a clicking noise when Gabe’s phone camera finally goes off, and Tyson, in a fool’s attempt at sitting up, faceplants onto JT’s dick.

Well. There are worse places to be.

 

Tyson wakes up somewhere between ten minutes and eighteen hours later, and it’s one of the worst things he’s ever done. 

“Tys,” JT says from above him, one hand scratching so gently at Tyson’s scalp while he tries his damndest to wake up. “Tyson, hey, we can stay here for the night, if you want?”

JT’s voice sounds like, fuckin’ - a cloud, or a bunch of puppies laying on a blanket, or, like, anything else that’s soft and lovely and wonderful. Tyson’s fucking tired and being in love is just more exhausting, so he just settles for a nod and lets JT take it from there. 

“We’ve got a spare room, second floor, by the bathroom,” Tyson Barrie says, sort of powerpoint origami transition effect-ing into Tyson’s line of sight. “And if you bone in my guest room, you owe me fifty dollars.”

“D’you need pajamas or anything? Water?” EJ asks, and Tyson’s too tired to be weird and morose about the way he just tucks big Tys under his weird long monster arms and pulls him close. Love is scary and nightmarish sometimes, but it’s still love, and it’s still sweet, apparently. 

“I think we’re alright, thanks,” JT says, and his fingers are still in Josty’s hair, and it’s nice. He says goodnight to Tyson and EJ, and Josty’s practically asleep again when JT prods and nudges him up off his lap. 

So, yeah, Tyson falls asleep in his boxers curled up against JT’s bare chest, and he’s gonna wake up sweaty and gross in the morning, but it’s - whatever. It’s just nice. 

 

When Tyson wakes up for the second time in twelve hours, JT’s got his hand spread out so close to possessive across his chest, and JT’s warm, like the world’s handsomest space heater. Jesus shitting christ, Tyson loves him a lot. 

“I love you,” he tries, lets the words hang all quiet in the soft morning air. It feels stupid, talking to somebody who’s not even awake to hear him. 

Like, Tyson used to talk to the George Michael poster he found at his grandparent’s house in his mom’s old room and snuck home in his jacket pocket, the one with the weird ass angle (frankly speaking: formative), but that’s different. George Michael and his ass were there, in spirit, for some real times. This - talking quiet enough to not wake JT up, even if he should be hearing it? It’s different. 

Tyson wishes he’d just be fucking hungover so he wouldn’t have to be a lovestruck idiot this early in the morning. It’s just not fair. 

“I’m being fucking stupid about it,” he says, just as quiet, and he slips the tip of a finger under JT’s waistband; not anything suggestive, just. Contact. As if he’s ever wanting for it.

And that’s enough, too much maybe when JT stirs a little, drags his fingertips a little further down Tyson’s chest and curls closer. Definitely too much, Tyson thinks, and he wakes up again, some time later, to JT’s lips against his shoulder blades, little trails of kisses. It’s a fucking lot, to say the least. 

So like, yeah, Tyson’s nineteen years old with a normal nineteen year old’s sex drive, so of course his dick is interested, but so is like, his heart. And that fucking sucks. Just, really, really fucking sucks.

Except.

There’s a big fucking “EXCEPT” hanging over this whole thing, like a neon sign spelling it out, big-ass marquee letters on the guest bedroom headboard. Monogrammed pillows that say “E-X-C-E-P-T” when you arrange them right. Whatever Pinterest bullshit it might be manifesting as in his half asleep imagination, it’s a big deal.

It doesn’t have to fucking suck, Tyson doesn’t think. If he’s really lucky, which he is more often than not, it doesn’t have to suck at all. 

JT makes this sleepy huffy noise when Tyson shifts away from the arm he had settled around his waist and turns to face him, and JT cracks his eyes open all slow and almost lazy. 

It’s been two months of it not being a thing, until suddenly it’s the biggest deal in the entire world, and nothing else could possibly matter this much. 

“Are you awake?” Tyson asks, and JT blinks slowly again, bringing his arm back up to wrap around Tyson’s waist, and christ, he had to go and get so possessive. Not like it happened overnight or anything, but Tyson just. Notices more, maybe. Like maybe it means something. And JT nods, finally, still moving so slow like his brain’s powering up when Tyson’s is moving a mile a minute. 

“Hey,” he says, and it feels like moving a fucking mountain when he reaches up to cup his hand around the side of JT’s neck. “I really want to kiss you?”

There’s a minute, there, maybe just a few seconds actually, where Tyson quite genuinely thinks he’s about to die. It’s not like it’s new, not like they haven’t made out at parties and on the couch and in parking garage elevators, but it’s - it’s different, is all. They’re just lying here, in Tyson Barrie’s guest room, and it feels like something revolutionary. 

All things considered, it’s not a surprise that JT kisses him first, this time. Something about the morning makes him feel gentler, like he could be any more soothing, any more fucking perfect when he drags his hand down Tyson’s lower back to grab at his ass, and it’s only his olympic self-restraint that makes Tyson break off from the kiss. 

“No, like,” he starts, and JT’s eyebrows sort of fold in like always, and Tyson can’t fucking stand it. “Like, I want to kiss you all the time,”

“You already do,” JT interrupts, one hell of a good morning, and Tyson shh-es him.

“You don’t get it, dude,” Tyson says, tapping his fingertips along the line of JT’s collarbone, listening to the little thumping noise it makes with the impact. It’s distracting. JT is distracting. “I don’t know how to say it, okay? I just - I want to kiss you not just when I’m horny. And I want to, like, maybe learn how to cook so I can make you breakfast. Stuff like that.”

JT looks like he’s thinking, that sort of raised eyebrow calm face he gets when he’s answering questions in a presser, and Tyson, once again, considers making a run for it. All his cards are on the table, even a card that just has “scared to say the word love” on it in red sharpie. So to speak. It’s in JT’s hands now.

And it’s fucking scary, Tyson thinks, laying there while JT just thinks at him. He’s so panicked that he thinks about EJ, like that helps with being scared, and he thinks about the way EJ and big Tys are with each other, how simple it is. He wonders if it’s scary anymore. If it ever was, or if it’s been easy and perfect like that for however long, and he’s trying to figure out if he could walk home from here if he fucked everything up, or if he could stay with Tyson for a while, and -

“I’ve been ridiculously into you for at least a year,” JT says, propping himself up on one elbow and looking down at Tyson the same way he always does, which, well. Makes it a little easier to believe, maybe. 

“Are you fucking kidding?” Tyson asks, because he’s eloquent and smart and beautiful and universally beloved. JT just shakes his head. “You’ve just - what the hell? Why didn’t you do something about it?”

JT shrugs, and Tyson thinks that the way his shoulders slope looks like home, and then thinks that he needs to calm down a little bit.

“I figured you were doing something, just on your own time,” JT says, christ, so fucking patient. He fucking sucks. “I mean, you tried to blow me in an elevator, I figure you were doing something,” he laughs, and Tyson doesn’t really have any choice but to shove him over onto his back, straddle his hips like he always wants to and kiss him until he can’t fucking think anymore. 

 

(They don’t bone in Tyson Barrie’s guest room, but it’s a near thing.)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @capitls/@junkeroni/@mollstermash // twitter @mollstermash


End file.
